Crossing Lines
by The Gray Maze
Summary: A series of 200 word ficlets for the Hero, whether dark or bordering that line. How he deals with the people in his life and the situations presented to him. TLC
1. Training

**Title:**** Training  
****Character(s):**** Hero, Whisper**

When he first saw the dead body of his father, he reacted as many children would. He fell to his knees and cried. He felt sorrow, despair, and just a little angry. After all, it was just hours ago that he was receiving gold pieces for good deeds and being ushered off to buy his sister a present, one she'd never get to enjoy. His deeds seemed wasted then.

Maze took him to the Guild, and in the span of those next few years, the straw dolls scattered on the training field received the brunt of his anger. Either by his fists or later his sword and will energies. Whisper had commented on it more than once, but typically a bloodshot glare would silence her long enough to walk away.

It scared him that he wished _she_ was standing where the dolls were when he practiced.

As he grew into a teenager and the training got more severe, he found himself looking forward to beating Whisper. A lot. Especially when Thunder showed up. He found himself wishing _then_, as he parried and struck at Whisper, that it was _Thunder_ in _her_ place this time.

An opportunity he would _kill for_.


	2. Dust

**Title:**** Dust  
****Character(s):**** Hero, Lady Grey**

The letter was delicate; yellowed, and brittle with age. It could crumble in an instant, if he tightened his hand. The words were written in desperate, messy cursive, but he could still decipher the damning words. The words that Amanda's ghost spoke were fresh in his mind, echoing relentlessly. She had moved on, but the one thing she left behind was resting gently in his palm.

He heard the approach long before the night air drifted into the room. From his peripheral vision he could see the violet dress, dark with the shadows that surrounded them both. Lady Grey—Elvira—stood at the threshold of the basement, regarding the letter with a sneer.

"So… now you know." She stated it idly, like it was but a simple fact.

"So now I know," he confirmed.

He looked up at her, face dimly illuminated by the light filtering through the cellar door. He could see the small frown on her face in place of her typical smirk.

"You can still have _me_." She whispered.

He offered her a smirk and closed his fist, crumbling the letter in his hand. Dust fell through his fingers, mixing into the puddles on the floor.

Gone.


	3. Merciless

**Title:**** Merciless  
****Character(s):**** Hero, Whisper  
**

"Remember our agreement!" she cried.

On her knees, her hands clapped in desperation, she begged. Her eyes were glassy with tears and from her lips pleading whimpers spilt forth, drowned out by the deafening roar of the crowd. Adrenaline rushed through his veins at the sound of the cheering spectators, and the gloved hand that tightly clutched his sword trembled. The acrid scent of blood wafting into his nose was making him dizzy.

Whisper was close to crying, there kneeling on the ground in hopes that he was still merciful. Still the kind, quiet, lazy farm boy that had shared a dorm with her in the Guild. His fingers curled and uncurled around the hilt of his blade as the thunderous screams surrounded him. It was maddening, all-encompassing, and he breathed deeply as his heart pounded in tune with the cheering.

"KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER!" they screamed. "SPILL HER BLOOD!" they demanded.

All of them, caught in the heat of the moment; the thrill and excitement of the event. They demanded the blood of his young rival, kneeling before him in a plea for compassion as he drowned in the bloodthirsty shouts and raised his sword.

No mercy.


	4. Blind

**Title: Blind  
Character(s): Hero, Theresa**

When he saw his sister, blind and among bandits, he couldn't bring himself to be surprised. When Maze had mentioned that Theresa might be alive, and then mentioned a seer that might help to find her, it hadn't been too hard to piece together. Theresa's cries at night when she dreamed weren't lost to him, as she had wakened him plenty during the night. Always rambling when she woke up, muttering incoherently about things to come and things to be.

But he still couldn't help but stare openly at her as she walked towards him, every bit as formidable as a predator. She had a look about her, even with no eyes to express it, one that screamed she had suffered already, and was prepared for any adversaries that would rise against her. Despite the whiteness of her attire there was a dark cloud around her that seemed concentrated on her unsmiling face. She looked ever-thoughtful, sullenly drawn, as though she were waiting in resignation for something unpleasant to happen.

Seeing her made a feeling that he hadn't felt in years stir within his bosom. He still cared for her even now. Even though she never came to visit him…


	5. Aeons

**Title:**** Aeons  
****Character(s):**** Hero, Theresa**

The sword felt heavy in his hand, like it was weighed down by the gallons of blood that had met its blade. Some of it his mother's, in fact. It was still wet, though no larger warm, and dripping ominously to the stone setting of the chamber.

Theresa pushed herself to her feet and turned to him calmly. She explained the sword as casually as a conversation about the weather, and for whatever reason, this disturbed him greatly. He gazed at her coolly, face carefully blank (not that she could see him anyway, but it was better safe than sorry). He would let her sense none of his indecision, keeping it tightly guarded under a stony face, as it he something to prove to her.

It felt like that tattooed eye on her forehead was looking right through him (_I see you, brother.)_

Irritated, he brought his arm up, and in one fluid movement swung it down. The pulsating black blade stopped at her neck, cold and merciless on her surprisingly delicate skin. It sang for her blood, greedy and without shame. Disgusted, he removed it from her collar, ignoring its disappointment.

"I don't need to kill you for power."


	6. Face

**Title:**** Face  
****Character(s):**** Hero, Jack of Blades**

He could be a great, immortal man, masked and powerful, wreaking havoc upon all of Albion. He could be a maelstrom of supremacy above all other heroes (dead or alive). He could be Jack of Blades, the timeless harbinger of destruction. He could travel as he wanted and learn as he pleased; no one would stop him.

But what was so great about a faceless man?

What could he be if he lived like that, unable to reveal his face? No longer _having_ a face to reveal. Who would he be? Was there a man if there was no face? Or simply an ageless, cycling demon with nothing to call his own?

He looked to the mask, and then to the inferno at his feet. He looked at his face, a red and twisted reflection, and pictured the mask there in its place. No identity, just an item, and he made up his mind.

The mask dropped, hitting the fires and incinerating upon them. He turned away, knowing that he could be great. Knowing that he could be better than Jack of Blades.

Because unlike that entity and all of his hosts, he had a face to call his own.


	7. Amusement

**Title:**** Amusement  
****Character(s):**** Hero, traders**

The branch was thick and sturdy, perfect, as it meant that it wouldn't give under the weight of both his body and the armor (light though it was) adorning him. His feet were carefully perched and his torso was just slightly rotated, concealing him behind the drooping green leaves. There was a barely-there smirk on his pale, angled face as he watched the path down below, waiting patiently.

Footsteps kicked up dirt on the path, and he quietly pulled his bow from his back. Sleek, black, and inconspicuous; it didn't make a sound as he drew an arrow across it.

A thin man in grubby village clothing came into view, sparing casual glances to his sides in an unconscious search of danger. He didn't glance up to see the dark clad man above him, and so didn't react to the presence of an arrow aimed directly at his neck.

Gloved fingers released the thin shaft, and the arrow whistled as it flew. The trader looked up in time to see it, but not in time to move.

He chuckled at the sound of the man's severed head bouncing into the grass, and sat back to wait for the next target.

**(Figured I'd give a little more wickedness, since the last few chapters had a few instances of morals, or close enough to them… even if it was just to update and say I'm still around.)**


	8. First

**Title:**** First  
****Character(s):**** Hero**

He remembered rather suddenly, with astounding clarity, an event from several years ago, before he graduated. It wasn't a surprise to be recalling it, his circumstances considered, but back at the Guild of Heroes there had been a seminar about killing. An old man, expert in the field supposedly, would come into the garden where the fresh, young batch of apprentices sat. He'd talk to them about the dangers of the world, and how, whenever they graduated, they would have to kill other people.

"_By no means is it __**encouraged**__ behavior, to go around and murder and such. Unfortunately, however, it is sometimes necessary." He explained this with an endearing smile, scanning the young faces that looked up at him raptly, and continued his lecture. "The first kill is the hardest_," _he said,_ "_but you will find that, in time, taking lives will become a little easier."_

He tilted his head and regarded his surroundings thoughtfully, lips twisted into a frown. As his gaze went from his red tinted blade, and then to the mangled bodies at his feet, he couldn't help but wonder exactly what, other than cleaning the blood from his sword, could be so difficult about it.


	9. Nightmare

**Title: Nightmare  
Character(s): Apprentice Hero, Maze**

The flickering tongues of fire in the hearth had become his closet companions during those cold, sleepless nights in the Guild. The ones where it wasn't the air causing the cold that flooded his body, but the nightmares. The ones where he'd burn and burn and wake up gasping and sweating and worrying that Whisper had seen his weakness yet again.

He slipped out of bed every time, uncomfortable with the feeling of being vulnerable in his sleep, and unwilling to be near his rival when he was in such a state.

"Back again, boy?"

Maze greeted him the same as always from his place before the hearth, not once looking back, and as always the apprentice approached him, but not too closely. He stood slightly behind the mage and watched the fire, mesmerized.

"I was burning again." He whispered, not tearing his eyes from the flames. "Inside the house this time."

"Don't fight the fire." Was the response.

He returned to bed, and this time when he burned, he embraced the flame, the raw passion that came with it, and he could feel his troubles leave him like the skin from his bones, crumbling to dust in the inferno.


	10. Infernal

**Title: Infernal  
Character(s): Hero, random enemies**

The crowded him, snarling visages of malevolence. How naïve that they assumed they were greater than he. How foolish, that they circled him like rabid dogs, confident that he was their prey, their next meal.

He smiled at them indulgently (it looked more like a wicked leer, really) and raised a gloved fist. Amber sparks flashed dangerously around it, a warning scarcely heeded by the monsters around him, who paused, but didn't retreat.

The hero chuckled as heat built around him, and screams echoed within his head in memory of a tragic affair some years ago. Burning orange runes traced themselves into the ground at his will, growing in intensity with every passing second. His foes scurried with startled yelps, but were unable to flee past the halo of fire encircling them. The heat was visible, tangible even, as distorted waves slithered through the air around him.

He raised his fist higher and brought it down hard, wordlessly commanding the fire to rise. Burning pillars erupted from the circle, blasting his enemies into the air. They howled and screamed as their bodies blackened, and the hero held the spell with a mad grin on his face.

"Burn, my prey, burn!"


	11. Snowflakes

**Title:**** Snowflakes  
****Character(s):**** Hero, Maze**

The snow was red, and it was all he could see as he limply grasped his sword. Everything—painted red, the token color of anger and malice, and yet he felt neither as snowflakes kissed his face. His breathing was heavy, testament to a long battle fought and won after running ceaselessly around the cold town.

He wasn't satisfied.

It hadn't taken him long to realize that this battle wouldn't be like the others he had fought so far. This was _Maze_ for Skorm's sake! The man who had taken him from the burning rubble of Oakvale and brought him to a place where he could learn the meaning of power without being coddled or fussed over. Finding him draining his sister's life for the sake of Jack of Blades had startled him, just a little.

For all the disdain that Maze had held for Scythe (who clung desperately to life within his shell of a body) the young hero hadn't foreseen him being just as terrified of death, certainly not frightened enough to throw his life to Jack of Blades.

And now it just didn't seem right for Maze to face his fear in a world of falling snowflakes.

**_(Edited 7/30/09)_**


	12. Prince

**Title: Prince  
Character(s): Those Irritatingly Gossipy Villagers**

His armor was splashed with blood, they noted, and no matter how long he stood in the fresh air, it never stopped glistening in that malevolent crimson colour. It never dried, permanently marking him as a killer, a hunter. It told tales—in more words than they could ever utter—of the scores of people he presented to his god.

Skorm whispered to him, they said, the moment his dark boots first touched the floor of the Chapel. It was as though it were meant to be, needed to be. As though some force like destiny or fate had mesmerized the young hero and brought him to the deepest recesses of Darkwood.

He could have gone either way, they thought. From the massacre of his hometown that spurned him to become a hero, he could have become Avo's light if only… if only he had overcome the hatred burning within his heart.

But Skorm claimed him first.

Skorm whispered sweet enticements into the hero's susceptible ears, coaxing him quietly into the night with promises of vengeance and power. Some said the young hero grew to be more than even Skorm had anticipated, gleefully killing in the name of his master.


	13. Voice

**Title:**** Voice  
****Character(s):**** Hero, Jack of Blades**

She stood as straight-backed and proud as a statue as she did in real life, he noted. Though, he hardly ever recalled her face looking so serious. It was interesting, to see this new perspective of her… his mother. He frowned and tilted his head in thought, studying this visage.

_(And the silence of the cavernous hallway was broken by an ominous swoosh and the telltale fluttering of cloth.)_

He was not surprised when the voice of Jack of Blade's suddenly sounded beside him, a velvety purr that made his lips twitch briefly in discomfort. He didn't turn to look at the infamous immortal, even when that blood-colored cloak took over his peripheral vision.

_("She was a great hero you know." He spoke lowly, voice conveying a dark amusement.)_

He suppressed a shudder at the chill that suddenly racked his body, and disgust flooded him. Cold vibes of sinister delight were radiating from the other's body as he spoke.

What magic was in that voice? What sort of power was it that made his muscles tense and his jaw tighten with just the sound of those silken syllables? Every instinct within him screamed at this new predator.

_(Flee, fight, kill!)_


	14. Epiphany

**Title:**** Epiphany  
****Character(s):**** Hero, Skorm  
****A/N:**** It didn't really turn out like I'd hoped, but here it is anyway.**

He had never thought himself to be _evil_ in any way; apathetic—mostly, amoral—somewhat. _Evil_ was a pigeonhole ascribed to any relatively unethical person who adhered to the will of Skorm, and he was neither a stereotype, nor a servant of the dark god. But this _did not mean_ that he would bow to the benignity and absolute benevolence of Avo either… he was just a wandering hero, adorned in dark armor with no other cause than his own.

And yet, reaching Darkwood, he made a detour.

His feet touched the winding pathway and led him to the sepulchral chapel of this _evil_ god, and he stepped up, curiosity guiding him. The acolytes were there, murmuring and chanting. They looked up from the fire to see him enter, dark eyes glittering like jet. A statue of a beast towered over them, mouth agape in a feral snarl.

What was it they were looking for? He looked from one to another, both gazing at him with some knowing look.

"Skorm sees your cause." One acolyte whispered.

"Yes… he _knows_ your cause." The other sighed.

The Hero looked into the fire, and decided rather suddenly that… "Perhaps he _is_ my cause."


	15. Red

**Title:**** Red  
****Character(s):**** Hero… and his madness I suppose  
****A/N****: I figured I should note that I was… not all there writing this… tiredness, not drugs folks. Anyway, this is it. Not my best, but it is practice, and as such it is being posted for some semblance of scrutiny.**

It was much madness in its most diabolical sense, but the pain was not at its purest. Truly, how could it be? There was but _one_ true Connoisseur of pain, and these petty, peevish, raucous guards could never pray to match him. Never, _never_ PRAY.

The Hero laughed in his cell as he lay bleeding on the fetid dampness of the floor, spending precious blood that gleamed and glittered; it shined red with intensity almost as vibrant as the wicked _S_ emblazoned upon his black. Skorm would gift him with retribution.

Red… how red. Fresh—it was scarlet… or Scarlet even. His mother… oh his weary, broken mother who suffered for this blood. But it congealed until it was a rusty color that was red but wasn't. How hideous.

He much preferred it fresh. Who wouldn't?

…how long had it been?

…how long would it _be_?

How long until the day meant for him to sate his thirst and bathe himself in the spurting red blood of his jailors? Until he drank their life and leered at their battered corpses? Until _he_ could finally dye everything in this wretched hole red… crimson… vermillion… _scarlet_!?

Too long… oh _far_ too long.

**_(Edited 7/30/09)_**


	16. Reaper

**Title****: Reaper  
****Character(s)****: Hero **_**(Reaper is always what I call him)**_**, Scythe  
A/N: Some pun, some not-so-subtle injection of Maze, a little change in style maybe... but the idea hit me as hard as the corner of an algebra textbook hits the foot when pushed off a locker room bench.**

Scythe didn't walk. If the distance was one he deemed too short to teleport, he would glide, or at least, that's how it looked. As if he couldn't spare the energy to move his legs. Physically, he was apparently too focused on keeping his body as inert as possible.

Briar said he was practically a genius when it came to magic, however, and the Hero scoffed as he considered it. Magic required very little physical exertion. It was focus, intelligence, and _drive_ that was needed to bend Will to the caster's desires. Admirable traits. The only ones he saw in Scythe, the cowardly shell. So afraid of Death that he immersed himself in the most ancient of necromantic rituals, sacrificing both blood and flesh in exchange for some mockery of immortality.

_That Maze had too much pride for._

He didn't acknowledge the man (_mummy_) that drifted in his direction. Not when he paused, bandaged face turning to regard him guardedly. No, but when the once-man breezed past him the Hero couldn't stop the words that spilt from his lips.

"How long will Death's eyes remain closed to you, Scythe?"

He didn't pause. "For as long as the Reaper is blind."


	17. Wicked

**Title:**** Wicked  
****Character(s):**** Theresa  
A/N: Yes, yes; me and the Skorm thing... I liked the _S_ tattoo, okay? And the bow... and the sacrificing people...**

A breeze picked up while she walked. She listened to the dancing leaves on the ground, ignoring the feeling of her hair devouring her face. It was evening, and the sky was a blend of reds and violets and other colors that she couldn't see, but could remember.

She had a bouquet of lilies in hand, white and glowing. She saw them in a dream and plucked them from their beds, not doubting for a moment that they were as pure and beautiful as they had been when she was sleeping.

Her feet carried her to the large wooden doors of the Guild of Heroes, which opened to her without any visible prompting, and she entered, headed for the gardens without pause. Tired apprentices, slumped at the occasional corner, didn't even glance up.

The lilies were laid carefully on the empty grave in the center.

"One possible outcome is dead, little brother."

She knelt and caressed the stone plate that declared that a great, worthy hero would someday take that tomb where the lilies laid. A dream she once had, of her brother as Avo's Light, flashed in her mind's eye and then vanished. Erased.

He belonged to Skorm now.


	18. Envy

**Title:** Envy  
**Character(s): **Elvira, Hero  
**A/N:** Not nearly as prolific as I'd like, but I may have something akin to a life now (not) so I'm (sorta but not really) busy (if lazing about is "busy")

Elvira admired her husband and, her heart willing, she _maybe_ loved him. At least, she was fond of him. And the way the villagers looked on _in terrorem_ whenever they saw him. It was exciting, entertaining—the kind of thing that made her blood go hot.

He was the anti-hero—dark, bittersweet, and quiet—doing as he pleased when he damn well pleased. Rather similar to herself, really, but for one thing.

She envied him terribly for it, just for the principal rather than any whitewashed guilt. She did hate her sister. Her hero's relationship with his was strained but not spiteful. Lady Grey looked at their primary difference (physical attributes aside) and noted a failing of hers with dissatisfaction.

She had to kill Amanda for power. Her unwilling sister.

Theresa would have accepted her death had her darling chosen to end her. He didn't.

Bitter jealously arose when she learned of this. Her ambitious, power-lusting person couldn't help but see this weakness and scorn it. Her hero, she _knew_, knew. He was pleased with himself over this bit of power he held over her.

And she was _almost_ arrogant enough to think that his motive for staying his blade.


	19. Graduation

**Title:** Graduation  
**Character(s): **Apprentice, Maze  
**A/N:** Always considered Maze more important than the Guildmaster. He seemed more main-character-y than the boring geezer.

The fire crackled, spitting embers out of the hearth. Preoccupied, the two occupants didn't spare it a glance. Maze at the window, arms folded at his back, the apprentice draped over the steps behind him. They were silent, lost in thought.

The apprentice lazily stared at the old mage's back. His eyes saw the gloved hand reaching for him, his ears half-listening to the harsh command: "Here, take my hand." He tilted his head and thoughts shifted to lessons in the courtyard about teaching methods around the globe and what worked for whom.

The Guildmaster said that across the world apprentices had to battle their masters in an all-or-nothing display of combat capabilities. Losing meant death or shame. It appealed to him somehow.

He hummed thoughtfully and Maze turned, waiting for the question.

"Will I have to fight you to graduate?"

"You will demonstrate the basics. It will not be a true battle—at your level you would lose."

He would still, in essence, be an apprentice then. Giving Maze an assessing look he thought about this and wondered when the time would come that he could measure himself against his mentor, and win.

_That _would be his true graduation.


End file.
